to be good, at least. I suppose I don’t see why God, assuming He exists, shouldn’t be satisfied with that.’
‘We are not children, but grown men, with responsibilities. Why should we expect God to be simple and straightforward?’
‘With all due respect, Father, that doesn’t prove anything.’
‘Do you not believe that God wishes to make us become better people by facing the difficulties He places before us?’
‘I think killing people in cold blood is a funny way of testing us.’
‘You are speaking of the murders,’ Macarius nodded. ‘Perhaps you came to this church to find out if we killed these boys in some kind of secret ritual?’
‘I don’t believe that nonsense, Father, but I would be interested in hearing your opinion. Do you think God is trying to teach us something by killing these children?’
Sami laughed nervously. ‘You’ll have to forgive my friend, Father. He has rather a singular way of expressing himself.’
The priest ignored Sami, his eyes remaining fixed on Makana.
‘Whoever is killing these boys will one day stand before God to answer for his crimes.’
‘That may be a little late for some,’ said Makana.
They had reached the end of the central nave. A set of stairs led upwards, the wood creaking as they climbed. The gallery led towards the back of the church while a ladder led up into the tower.
Macarius moved along carefully, examining the big windows for damage. From where they stood they could look down into the street in front of the church. The crowd had more or less dispersed. The police officers were removing their helmets and lighting cigarettes. From here they could also look down over the compound adjoining the church which contained a low, single-storey building along two sides. The roof was covered in tin sheeting that was patched up in places. Father Macarius led the way back downstairs. Through a curtain a doorway led into the building next door. A long, open space. The windows facing the street were all shuttered. Along the sides ran long trestles fashioned roughly from wood. On some of these mattresses had been rolled up.
‘This is our little boarding house. We take in children who have nowhere to go, or who cannot go home. We give them a place to sleep, clean water and clothes as well as food.’
‘Do you run this place by yourself?’ Makana asked.
‘We have volunteers to help with most things, including teaching.’
Father Macarius was already on the other side of the long, dark room, exiting through a doorway out into the compound. The high walls were topped with iron stakes and strands of wire whose barbs gleamed like silver teeth and made it look more like a fort than a place of worship. An ancient bus was parked against one wall, the word Delta just visible on its side through the sun-bleached paint. On the far side an open garage door admitted them to the other building, from which they could now hear excited shouts.
‘Twenty years ago there was a shoe factory here. When it became cheaper to import than to make them it was closed down. The family refused to sell and the place fell into ruin until I came along.’
‘They were Christians?’
‘Does that make a difference?’ The square jaw tilted like a rocky crag as a dark look clouded the priest’s face. ‘We must help one another in difficult times. If not . . .’ He left the sentence hanging.
Makana and Sami stepped in through the doorway to find themselves in a long, gloomy hangar. The only light entered through opaque sheets of corrugated plastic which alternated in places with the rusty tin of the roof. At the centre was a boxing ring, the ropes hanging slackly. The canvas stretched across its surface was scarred by zigzag sutures where rips had been sewn up by a clumsy surgeon. At the far end of the room were a couple of punchbags that sagged like paunchy old men; beyond that rows of shelves and benches were arranged along the walls. The whole place reeked of decades of sweat. It oozed from the walls and might have been painted on the floor in thick layers. A sign proudly read: Seraph Sporting Club. Below this an angel with flames for wings flew across the wall. Makana recognised the figure from the painting inside the church. The image was pockmarked in places where the plaster had fallen away, and the intensity of the colours had also faded with time to dull browns and reds. The face